


Wind Chimes

by graceandkooky



Category: Grace and Frankie (TV)
Genre: F/F, Happy Ending, One Shot, Some angst, Sweetness, frankie-focused
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-30 09:31:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12105780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graceandkooky/pseuds/graceandkooky
Summary: One shot."She’s fairly sure that Grace is trying to control her breathing – trying not to cry – but she doesn’tknow, and that’s the crux of this whole fucktastic mess."It's the morning of the move to Santa Fe and everyone is justfine, except that they're not.





	Wind Chimes

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't really written from Frankie's perspective before because I relate so much more naturally to Grace, but I've taken a stab at it. 
> 
> (There is a possibility that Jacob is slightly OC but I really dislike him and I have no regrets.)
> 
> Comments are very much appreciated - it's always a boost to receive feedback.

Frankie is flitting around, checking every surface in the house for things that she might somehow, despite this being the third sweep, have forgotten to pack. She’s moving quickly, in her usual airy fashion, but her speed is a conscious attempt to veil the fact that she’s lingering. She drums her fingers against the island, trying not to notice the arrangement of lilies that arrived from Nick’s office this morning. _That slimeball_. _She’s a pacifist, naturally, but even she is not above throwing a punch in his direction._ She feels a lump in her throat when she spots her mug next to Grace’s by the sink. Her rhythmic tapping soothes her for a few more seconds before she decides she’d better pick up the pace again. She opens a cupboard door, peering inside and clicking her tongue instead.

Jacob’s voice sounds from behind her and she closes her eyes briefly before leaning back up and turning around. “You’ve checked that cupboard twice already. I think we’re good.” She draws a deep breath and tries to stomp down the nagging thoughts that enter her head when she hears him. _This is their house - his voice shouldn’t be here._  

But she smacks her lips together and nods, wiping her hands down the front of her dungarees. “Yep, everything seems to be bagged up. I just had to make sure. Don’t wanna leave any of my essentials behind.” _Except that she is. Except that she’s leaving behind the most essential thing in the world._

“Great. Well, I’ll shift this stuff to the car.” He glances up at Grace, whose lithe silhouette has just appeared at the bottom of the stairs. “I’ll give you guys a minute.” He nods at Grace, quickly, and then disappears out of the door.

Grace waits until he’s left to reveal the basket that she’s been hiding behind her back. She holds it out to Frankie, who moves forward, trying not to trip over her own clogs. _Oh, hell no._

“I thought I’d better keep this in my room so you didn’t find it during your search. I made you lunch to take with you, and there’s a few special treats in there. Don’t eat all of the muffins at once, for god’s sake.” Frankie’s mouth is dry as she peers into the basket. She imagines Grace measuring out each low-sodium, high-fibre ingredient with exquisite precision, _determined to make every bite perfect_. She can feel her eyes starting to betray her, growing wet in the corners. _Damn it. Damn it all._

Frankie attempts to crack a smile as she reaches for the gift, though her fingers are trembling so much she’s pretty well certain Grace can see it. She coughs. “I can’t promise I won’t wolf it all down on the first leg of the journey, but I’ll make an effort.” She pauses, tilting her head to the side. Grace is wearing her new, green bird shirt and it’s hard to concentrate on anything else. _Why, Goddess, why?_ “Thank you.” The words stumble clumsily from her tongue, but what else is she supposed to say exactly? ‘ _This is so goddamn thoughtful I can’t even think straight - pun intended’? ‘All you have to do is ask me to stay and I won’t budge an inch from you ever again’?_

It’s worse than she imagined because Grace looks ready to cry herself and she can’t take that, she really can’t. If she does, Frankie knows the jig will be up and she’ll have to stay and face the music, whatever that entails - no matter what Grace is or isn’t willing to give her – no matter how much her heart is going to break. So she searches for words – _any words –_ to fill the silence. “Make sure you water the plants in my studio, okay? Dolores is already looking a little worse for wear but I want to give her a fighting chance.” 

Frankie thinks she sees something flicker in Grace’s eyes but it’s gone before she can pin it down and name it. Then, without giving her a chance to brace herself, Grace hugs her and suddenly her skin seems like it’s burning – _everywhere_ – even between her toes. _Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit._ Grace’s wispy arms are warm and soft across her back and Frankie racks her brains, searching her memories for the last time she was held like this. She sees a brief flash of a pink cotton dress, a scraped knee - _of her mother_ , cradling her to her chest like a bouquet of gathered daisies. She wants this moment to stretch on and on, and somehow it does, touching the edges of the distant past and sneaking in to her visions of the future. _A retirement home - a jazz band - swaying: Grace. She can’t catch a break._

“You’ll call me when you get there, right?” Between Grace’s mouth, which moves against the seam of her t-shirt, and the scent of washing detergent, which screams of _their_ _home,_ Frankie can barely thread together a coherent band of thought. The combination knocks her off kilter and all she can do is lean more firmly against Grace, which only serves to make the situation worse. _So, so much better, but definitely worse._

Frankie’s reply is so strained it almost creaks, though she shoots for humour. “You betcha. Can’t get rid of me that easily. I’m still gonna be bugging you no matter what.” Grace’s fingers are moving against her spine and Frankie wonders if it’s possible for her bones to memorize the pattern, the way a piano’s worn keys remember its player’s hands. Her body is tuned to Grace’s gentle strokes, poised for the next note they will play. She wants, _so badly,_ to remember.

“I’ll pick up on the first ring, I promise.” Frankie clenches her teeth and squeezes her eyes shut, anticipating the fatal brush of Grace’s lips against her forehead, but it never comes. _At least she’d have been ready for that._ But instead, the limbs that are holding her seem to wind even more tightly and Grace’s head moves up, almost imperceptibly, until Frankie can feel a nose burrowing just below her ear. _Fuck. Fuck everything._ The tiny puffs of breath that heat her neck every time Grace exhales are alone enough to make her knees dip but then – _then –_ Frankie’s heart skyrockets out of her chest. Because without any warning, so softly Frankie is sure she’s imagining it, she feels Grace’s lips press against the side of her throat.

Frankie stiffens, biting back a hollow whimper, and then Grace pulls back until only her hands are left resting on Frankie’s shoulders. _That can’t have been real._ Frankie swallows, tasting the faintest tang of bile. _There’s no way. Just fucking wishful thinking._ Still, she can’t tear her eyes away from Grace’s blue orbs - can’t help nursing the tiniest glimmer of hope as she scans Grace’s face for any signs of confirmation – any hint of intent.

She opens her mouth to speak but suddenly Jacob’s back, striding across the entryway, even as Grace’s palms remain soft against the tops of her arms. “Come on, we need to get moving if we want to beat the traffic.” She finally breaks Grace’s gaze and nods, taking a step backwards. The loss of the warm contact feels like she’s being ripped apart from the inside out – she can practically see her organs rolling across the floor - hooking in - tethering her to the furniture. _Newsflash: she’s astronomically screwed._

She looks back at Grace, who now has her arms wrapped around herself. _Ridiculous: to be jealous of that simple fact - to envy both the arms and the body for their parts in that equation._ She’s fairly sure that Grace is trying to control her breathing – trying not to cry – but she doesn’t _know,_ and that’s the crux of _this whole fucktastic mess._ Frankie knows that if Grace would just ask - like she’s been longing for her to ask – _begging_ her to ask – _she’d stay._

But Grace doesn’t, and as much as it kills her – as much as it jams a trident right through her stupid heart – Frankie has to leave, because staying – _staying_ – and pretending is too much to handle. One more day of that annoying little smirk from Grace and Frankie knows she’ll kiss it right off her mouth and there’s a high chance Grace will never forgive her. She cannot gamble it all on a sucker bet – _on the slim hope that Grace might actually kiss back_. So reaching across the few feet between them, Frankie takes Grace’s hand and gives it one final squeeze before moving, with cinder-block-feet, out to the car. 

* * *

Grace stands in the arch of the doorway, waving, as the car backs out of the driveway. Frankie tries to centre her breathing – tries to silence Joanne who is currently having a meltdown. _Fails miserably._ But she manages, just barely - by some miracle - to wave back. Frankie must have angered Goddess in a past life, she’s almost positive, because she’s plagued by images that push the trident further in – twist it cruelly in a clockwise motion. _It isn’t fair, it really isn’t._ She pictures the reverse of this scene: _pulling up to the beach house - Grace waving with delight - arms stretched out to greet her. A toe-curling kiss that tastes like vanilla and treacle, welcoming her home after a day spent with Bud and Coyote. Does the universe really hate her this much?_

As the car carries her further and further away, Frankie glances down at the basket in her lap - runs her thumb over the wicker edge. Her grandmother used to tell her that baking was a labour of love – that every gram was a wish for another’s happiness. She feels sick – considers asking Jacob to pull over so she can get some air. Jacob – who she’s barely thought about at all during this whole damned fiasco - just another reason to feel queasy. She knows he deserves more than to be runner up in a contest that’s already won – _that isn’t even a contest_ – but she’s trapped, and scared, and she needs an out. _How fucking terrible is that? What kind of person is she?_

And now with every mile she’s getting further and further from the truth. _Further from the safety of Grace’s arms._ She tries to make sense of how she ended up here – on this road, in this car – when every time she tells Jacob she loves him it’s unmistakably an apology. _When the miles are taking her further and further from where she knows she’s supposed to be._ She’s a _coward._

She thinks back to another scene in a car – before things turned rapidly into a shit show – and she runs her words over and over. “ _Well, you can say something! Like ‘don’t go, I’ll miss you’_.” She remembers Grace’s pained, she now realises, reply, “ _You think I don’t feel anything about this?”_ She wonders if Grace spent the night before, the “ _we’ll talk about this in the morning_ ” night, crying herself to sleep just as she had. Only now does she dare to venture a guess.

And then, of course, everything hit the fan with the stroke and the arguments – _which were stupid as fuck because she knows Grace was right - knows Grace was scared as hell - knows Grace was frantic._ But then came the balloon ride and the handholding - and the _Grace-holding -_ and Grace sharing her fears. And Frankie knows, above all else, that she’s fucked up. _Royally fucked up._

She’s figured out, now, _at the worst time possible_ , that Grace’s speech about the dishwasher and the hats was probably the closest that she dared to come to an admission of… of something - knows that infuriating, amazing woman must have spent her whole night baking just so Frankie had something tangible to take with her on this godforsaken journey. _Jesus, what did she expect? A fucking red carpet rolled out at her feet with all the bells and whistles and skywriting to spell it out for her? What was she thinking?_

And in that car, in those few moments when she thought death was hurtling towards her, she saw a kind of bright light, but not the one with the tunnel and Saint Peter at the end like she’s heard described over and over. What Frankie saw, instead, was a montage of every single time she’d ever seen Grace Hanson laughing, because making that high-maintenance twiglet giggle like a schoolgirl is her favourite thing in the world. She’d do anything – _anything –_ to make Grace happy. _God, she’s flat-out fucked._

All attempts at distraction gone, she thinks about Grace’s shiny lips tugging up at the corners, curving into her favourite smile. That mouth used to worry Frankie once – used to be laced with vodka and an incredibly sharp tongue. A tongue that used to nag Frankie at dinner parties or refuse to be silenced, dishing out compliments that dripped with sarcasm. A tongue that could beautifully gift-wrap an insult so its target didn’t even realise they should be offended. Its insincerity – that’s what drove Frankie crazy. She knew for years that Grace was lying through her teeth – those two rows of pearly white headstones that marked her victims – that Frankie had always imagined as fangs (hence the portrait, which she wishes she could un-paint).

She never realised that for forty years Grace was lying to herself. And now, she knows that mouth like her own – has heard it singing along to Birdy on the radio and trying to learn the lingo of her grandkids. _Mary Lou. That mouth_ , with its silky lips and perfect pout, makes Frankie want to run into traffic – to smudge that lipstick against her own smile. And it had opened against her neck – she’s damn near sure of that now. _She’s an idiot._ She hears a mantra in her head – a painful chorus that she can’t escape. _This is not right. This is not right._ She can’t do this to Grace just because she’s shaking in her fucking clogs. This is a _mistake,_ and she doesn’t want to make it.

Somehow, though it feels like it’s been an eternity, the clock on the dashboard tells her they’ve only been driving for twenty minutes. She tightens her grip on the basket, anchoring her to her decision. “Jacob, we need to turn around. I haven’t packed my wind chimes.” _It’s feeble_ , she knows that, but she can’t think clearly enough to come up with anything better.

Jacob throws her a quick glance before turning his attention back to the road. “You can call Grace later and ask her to send them over.”

“No, I need to go get them. Please.” _She’s as freaking transparent as a pane of glass._

She hears Jacob sigh and he rolls his fists around the steering wheel, squeaking the leather. “You and I both know this isn’t about the wind chimes.”

She knows she’s being unreasonable – knows how selfish this is – but right now she’s only focused on Grace – on how much she might have hurt her favourite person in the world. _Grace didn’t ask her to stay so she basically walked out on her. What kind of fucking dick move was that?_ She’s honestly wondering at this point if maybe the stroke wiped out half her brain cells. _She just has to fix this._

“Turn around or I’ll jump out right here on the side of the road, don’t think I won’t. I once hitched all the way across Krakow hopping train carts. I want my wind chimes.” Her voice is gravelly and uneven.

“Cut the crap, Frankie. This is about Grace and you not wanting to leave her on her own - at least be honest about it. Where will she be without her favourite punching bag, right? Probably drinking herself into a stupor and no doubt hunting down a new victim.” He hits the wheel with his left hand and says something under his breath that Frankie thinks she’s probably better off not having heard. “If we go back, you know what this means.”

The car still hasn’t stopped and Frankie is moments away from erupting. “ _I do._ And I’m gonna need you to quit trash-talking my best friend before I really lose my cool here. You’re about five seconds away from becoming intimately acquainted with this stick shift.”

She can see Jacob’s pulse beating in his neck. “Come on, you know as well as I do how self-absorbed Grace is. You really think she can’t find some other sucker to pamper her ego and make fun of? You’re being ridiculous. I should have seen this coming.”

Frankie is clenching her fists so hard they’ve turned white. She spots a neon sign ahead and sends a grateful prayer up to Goddess. “Pull over at this gas station. _Now._ I’ll call Bud. Just _let me out of this goddamn car.”_

Jacob finally cuts off the engine outside the service point and Frankie drags out her bags, careful not to jostle her sacred basket. She makes her way over to a metal bench and calls her son. Jacob remains seated in his car, trying to engage Frankie, until Bud shows up – _her blessed saviour_.

“Frankie, for the record, I think you’re making a huge mistake.” Jacob’s voice cuts across the lot, grating against Frankie’s last nerve.

She loads her belongings into the back of Bud’s ride and calls out across the asphalt. “Yeah, and I think you’re being a real asshole.” She’ll probably regret that later, but she climbs into the front seat, basket in hand. Bud pulls out of the space and, _finally,_ Frankie feels like she’s heading in the right direction. 

* * *

When Frankie rounds the back of the house – she’s pretty sure she’ll find Grace on the porch there – she steels herself. She has a quick word with Joanne, who has thankfully stopped screaming. _Come what may,_ she vows, _whatever happens, Grace needs me and I need that golden-haired nymph more than I even realised. We’ll be okay._

Her spider senses are right because she spies Grace sitting curled up in one of their deck chairs - _Frankie’s deck chair._ She can hardly believe it when she notices the tiny chimes that Grace is strumming with her fingers. _A message from the universe came after all._ As she gets closer, moving quietly so as not to startle Grace, it becomes more and more apparent that Grace is crying. _Oh Jesus – Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. She really, truly fucked it._

She speaks softly, trying not to catch Grace too off guard, but that’s largely unavoidable. “Hey, Good Lookin’. Catching some low-flying sunbeams?” She aims for nonchalance but her words are unsteady and wobble across the space between them.

Grace’s head shoots up, her face a picture of shock and, undeniably, _hope_. Frankie treads closer and stops just short of the foot of the chair. The air around them seems very still, suddenly, and Grace’s eyelids flutter. Her voice glides out quietly, trembling. “I thought maybe I’d come out here and talk to Goddess. See what she had to say.” 

 _Lord have mercy._ Frankie is knocked sideways by that admission and she feels her eyes beginning to spill over with tears. She sits down next to Grace in the middle of the chair and holds her arms open. “Come here, Golden Girl.” Grace crawls forward and Frankie wraps her up securely in her embrace. She can feel Grace’s heart thudding through the thin cotton of her shirt. “Did you get a reply?” 

There’s a long pause before Grace looks up at Frankie, her eyes skimming over each crinkle in Frankie’s face. “Yes.” She sends Frankie the tiniest smile and Frankie’s stomach starts doing cartwheels, but it falls before it’s even really there. “Did you forget something?" 

Frankie nods, looking down at Grace’s hands. Grace turns them over and opens them, offering her the bronze wind chimes. Frankie grins, moving the chimes aside and taking Grace’s hands instead. Grace glances at their twined fingers and then meets Frankie’s eyes, beaming for real this time. _Shit, she’s done for. She’s all in, consequences be damned._ Grace’s skin is so soft Frankie feels like her hands might go straight through it – like they might merge into one without her noticing. _Maybe that's already happened._

She strokes the apple of Grace’s cheek as delicately as she can. “God, you’re beautiful. Why do you have to be so fucking cosmic? Jesus, woman, you smile and my brain sizzles up like an egg in the desert, did you know that?” _Okay, so she could have picked a better metaphor, but at least she’s managed to coax something out of her throat._

Grace sniffs, her lip quivering. It’s out of character for her to be so unsure but Frankie knows just how thin this beam is that they’re teetering on - she understands the wish for a harness and a crash mat. “Frankie, I – you’re - ” Grace snags that lip between her teeth, shaking her head.

“Hey, it’s just me. You can tell me anything, I swear.” Grace is still moving her head from side to side so Frankie cups her cheeks, stilling her. She rests their foreheads together and tries to resist the urge to faint. _Here goes nothing. And everything._ “Did you _want_ me to stay, Grace? Fuck Jacob, fuck everything else - that’s not important right now. Just _please,_ tell me – did _you_ want me to stay?" 

Grace takes a shuddering breath and tears start rolling from her eyes again. Her voice is thick with worry. “I don’t know if I can answer that.”

“My Grace isn’t afraid to speak her mind. What’s different this time?”

Her question is met with an expression that shifts, subtly, from sadness to hurt, as if Grace can’t believe Frankie would even need to ask that. “ _You,_ Frankie. I want you to be happy.”

Frankie chuckles, leaning back and tilting Grace’s chin up with the crook of her forefinger. “You’re what makes me happy, you gorgeous dumbass. _You._ I should have told you that before. _”_

Grace seems thrown by that – like that’s not at all what she’s been expecting – and her eyes clamp shut. She opens them again but refuses to meet Frankie’s gaze, instead fixing her sight on the slats of the chair. “You’ll change your mind about that. We both know I’m not an easy person to deal with.”

“Well neither am I. And I’m serious as that warning I got for flipping off that officer who asked me to stop yelling at that lady wearing fur at the Cinnabon – _I won’t change my mind_.”

Grace finally looks straight into Frankie’s eyes, her words catching as she speaks. “I’m _scared_.” Frankie thinks she must have misheard her at first – can’t believe those two syllables just rolled from Grace’s tongue – and then Grace whispers again and Frankie is sure she must be dreaming. “I think maybe – maybe I could use some courage.”

Grace’s breathing is shallow and Frankie plays the words over and over again in her mind – is terrified of misreading their meaning. But Grace leans, ever so tentatively, closer and Frankie knows, as much as anyone can ever really _know,_ that it’s an invitation – that Grace is taking a leap of faith and praying Frankie will catch her mid-fall – will meet her half way. _So Frankie does._

“Do you want me to breathe some courage into your mouth?” It’s an echo from an earlier time, a slightly different place. 

Grace’s mouth turns down at the sides, as if she’s trying to stifle a sob, and Frankie’s heartbeat hammers against her ribs like a gamer frantically hitting buttons. But then Grace nods, and Frankie feels like her guardian angel has picked up the slack after a super long time playing hooky.

She inches forward, brushing her lips gently over Grace’s. _Mother of God._ It’s quick - Frankie pulls back after a few seconds so she can check in with Grace – check this is what she wants. _She doesn’t know what she’ll do if it isn’t – starts scripting a million ways to backtrack at a mile a minute._ But a tiny smile creeps across Grace’s features, lighting up her whole face, and Frankie muses that the world, at long last, is turning in her favour. _The cowardly lioness has earned her medal._

She laughs – dizzy with sweet relief – and dives back in, capturing Grace’s mouth with more urgency. _Oh, holy hell._ She feels like she’s been drowning and Grace’s needy kisses – her hands that blaze a trail across the nape of Frankie's neck - that can’t keep still – are drags of air. Her own fingers wind through Grace’s silky locks – dance along her collarbones – mould against the base of her back. _She’s never felt like this. Never felt so out of control but utterly alert – humming with euphoria._

Grace’s movements are insistent and sure - tugging Frankie closer and closer – erasing the miles that were nearly between them and healing their bodies into one glowing, divine entity. Frankie’s teeth graze and soothe and Grace’s tiny moans are the only sounds that she ever wants to hear again.

Finally, Grace draws back, tucking a curl behind Frankie’s ear. “I need you,” she manages between kisses, which she’s resumed swiftly after catching her breath. “I need you to stay. _Please.”_

Frankie can barely concentrate on anything other than the satiny smooth skin that she’s just discovered on the inside of Grace’s bicep – _as velvet as blossom._ She eventually succeeds at reminding her mouth how to do something other than kiss Grace’s – just about finds her voice. “That’s really fucking fortunate because I dropped my stuff off by the lemon tree.” She strokes Grace’s knee, tracing the curve of the cartilage there. “You and me - think you can handle that?”

Grace’s laugh spills out like a whacked piñata, showering Frankie with joy. “ _No._ But it’s what I want. You’re – you’re what I want. You’re it. Everything.”

 _Holy Moses. The idea that she could have missed out on this – could have gone her whole life without feeling this weightless paradise – she can’t even bear to imagine._ She thinks she might burst into tears at any second. Grace lifts her arms and wraps them around Frankie’s neck, dipping her head in between them. She peppers feather-light kisses against the hollow of Frankie's throat and then seals her mouth just beneath her ear.

 _Frankie wonders if maybe she didn’t make it after all – if she’s actually back in that car, finally meeting her maker. Grace’s lips are just too heavenly, too bewitching, to be human – too perfect to belong to anyone but an angel. She doesn’t care either way._ She knows Grace is almost definitely leaving a mark – something she’s always hated – but she feels a surge of pride at the possibility – at the prospect of _belonging_ to Grace, even just for a moment. _It feels less like a staking of territory and more like a promise._

Grace is gasping when she eventually tilts back and as Frankie looks at her, flushed and a little dishevelled, a realisation hits her full force – makes her blood pound in her ears. _She’s been an idiot for even longer than she initially thought._ Because although Grace’s mussed hair and swollen lips are new, the look on her face – those doe-eyes, that wonky grin - is the same one she’s given Frankie hundreds of times before, _and Frankie fucking missed it. She missed it for weeks – months, even._

She swallows the lump in her throat and two hot tear tracks drizzle down her cheeks, dripping off her chin. “I’m so sorry, Sweetheart. You’ve been telling me without words this whole time and I was too damn chickenshit to figure that out.” She takes Grace’s hands, kissing the silvery spots speckled across the backs. “I’m usually tapped right in to the frequency of the Grace-station but turns out the static’s pretty bad when fear’s on the radio.”

Grace’s hand comes up to rest against the side of Frankie’s face, cradling it with her open palm. “Are you receiving me loud and clear right now?” Frankie nods, melting against Grace’s touch. “Then listen carefully. You’re _here._ You’re here, and you’re staying, and _I love you –_ so _very_ much. I’m in love with you. So please don’t worry, because the rest of the details really don’t matter, okay?”

 _She’s dead. She’s for sure dead, and even if she wasn’t before, she most certainly is now._ She can’t breathe – can’t work out how to move her limbs – _definitely_ can’t function enough to think of a worthy reply _._ Her mouth kicks into gear before she has chance to approve its words and apparently she’s just along for the ride – will find out the destination along the way.

“Oh, _Honey_ ,” Frankie simpers - her voice shaking with awe - a sob waiting just below the surface, “I’m so, super, three-sheets-to-the-wind, Stallone-on-steroids, ticket-to-the-fake-moon-landing, When-Harry-Met-Sally, fuck-it-all level in love with you, too.” _Okay, so she might have gone a little overboard, but there’s no one she’d rather jump ship for._

That mouth, _that mouth,_ lifts into the most glorious, blinding smile Frankie’s ever witnessed and she’s never been more grateful for her inability to control her babbling. And then that mouth is tangled with Frankie’s again, softer than snow.

When their lips part, Grace lets out a divine giggle that zips up Frankie’s spine, stitching her insides back together. _It’s another clip to add to her montage - to take with her when she goes._ Only now, she vows, _now, she’s determined to make it into a feature-length film – an Oscar-winning picture._ And she decides that she’s gonna make it her mission from now on to make sure that _that mouth,_ when it’s not attached to her own, is almost always _laughing_.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed the fic! I'd love to hear your comments if you have any - they keep my little heart happy :).


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